What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,
What mean they, nun or fairy?
I guess they told no beads to-day,
And sang no Ave Mary:
From mass and matins, priest and pyx,
Barred door, and window grated,
I wish all pretty Catholics
Were thus emancipated!
Four seasons come to dance quadrilles
With four well-seasoned sailors;
And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills
With Timon, prince of railers;
I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park
Equipt for a walk to Mecca;
And I run away from Joan of Arc,
To romp with sad Rebecca.
Fair Cleopatra’s very plain;
Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;
And Cæsar’s murdered o’er again,
Though not by Roman daggers:
Great Charlemagne is four feet high;
Sad stuff has Bacon spoken;
Queen Mary’s waist is all awry,
And Psyche’s nose is broken.
Our happiest bride—how very odd!—
Is the mourning Isabella;
And the heaviest foot that ever trod
Is the foot of Cinderella;
Here sad Calista laughs outright,
There Yorick looks most grave, sir,
And a Templar waves the cross to-night,
Who never crossed the wave, sir!
And what a Babel is the talk!
“The Giraffe”—“plays the fiddle”—
“Macadam’s roads”—“I hate this chalk!”—
“Sweet girl”—“a charming riddle”—
“I’m nearly drunk with”—“Epsom salts”—
“Yes, separate beds”—“such cronies!”
“Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”—
“A pair of Shetland ponies.”
“Lord Nugent”—“an enchanting shape”—
“Will move for”—“Maraschino”—
“Pray, Julia, how’s your mother’s ape?”—
“He died at Navarino!”—
“The gout, by Jove, is”—“apple pie”—
“Don Miguel”—“Tom the tinker”—
“His Lordship’s pedigree’s as high
As”—“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”
“Love’s shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”—
“Heart-broken”—“broke the traces”—
“What say you now of politics?”—
“Change hands and to your places.”—
“A five-barred gate”—“a precious pearl”—
“Grave things may all be punned on!”—
“The Whigs, thank Heaven, are”—“out of curl!”—
“Her age is”—“four by London!”
Thus run the giddy hours away,
The morning’s light is beaming,
And we must go to dream by day
All we to-night are dreaming,—
To smile and sigh, to love and change:
Oh, in our hearts’ recesses,
We dress in fancies quite as strange
As these our fancy dresses!
A LETTER OF ADVICE.
(From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London.)
“Enfir, monsieur, un homme aimable;
Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l’aimer”
—Scribe.